


Codex Page

by butterscotchnotebook



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Betrayal, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Minor Relationship(s), Minor canon divergence, Minor pornography, Points at the Malik/Altaïr, first person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 21:57:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7909066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterscotchnotebook/pseuds/butterscotchnotebook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Altaïr reflects on a woman in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Codex Page

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a horrible, terrible person.

      I will never admit to having been afraid of her to anyone alive. She was wild, spontaneous... I often worried her actions would lead her down a path of destruction, but I feared not a moment longer when I witnessed her capabilities myself. Her grace in battle, posing as perfectly as the other men (who were ignorant to the fact she wasn't one of them, ironically. You would think that, as assassins, we would have spotted that soon enough.) was more than enough to both soothe my soul, and impress me immeasurably. I felt a sort of kinship with her, as if I had known her for several years; and yet, I did not even know this woman's name. I resolved to learn it, one way or another.  
I hadn't had to go through much work to get her name; she gave it willingly. We talked until the dawn became dusk, until the stars began to twinkle above. She noted that some of the stars took shape in the night, wandering the dark sky, in search of whatever destiny had for them. I myself did not see any such shapes, but the stories she told me of them were very well told, and I found myself enraptured by the smooth silk of her voice as she told me of the Huntsman, searching far and wide for the beast he had failed to kill so many years ago.  
We spent many a night like that; lying down in the courtyard, when all had been laid to rest for another day of work, simply gazing at the stars...  
Her hands would sometimes lace with mine. Her hands spoke a great deal more volume than her voice did, or even her hazel eyes; they say that the eyes are the window to the soul.  
Her fingers sometimes spent their time in my short hair, often teasing the short strands, smoothing them upwards, which never ceased to cause a little shiver to send itself down my spine.  
There were moments when her hands would do other things with me. The caresses of her calloused hands were gentle on my marred skin. A finger was brought to my lips, tracing the scar I had received as a small child. Her thumb would sometimes swipe over my bottom lip, and she would replace the finger with her own lips. Her hands would caress my cheek with a certain softness I would not come to fully know and understand until I met Maria.  
I will admit that she was the more dominant one is... Whatever it was we had together. I do not know whether to call it love, or simply a pact to pleasure.  
She often carried a silver tongue, but, when we shared a bed on cold nights that neither one of us bothered to bear, it was velvet. Her words were purrs that rolled from her tongue that were soft and sweet, yet firm and demanding. I often found myself complying readily, even enjoying this subservient role I had subconsciously accepted.  
Her hands felt amazing on me. Her fingers lit a fire in my belly as she touched me, and before I would even notice, or deign to care, the room would be much too hot, my breathe coming out in pants, sometimes even begging her for more in incoherent babbles of Arabic and English. Often, she left me as I was for a short time, her clothes thrown haphazardly to the floor. She would be back and completely naked. I would always marvel at the black marking on her waist; it took the shape of an eagle. It was detailed, to say the least. I would always make a note to ask her how it had gotten there, but I would always forget.  
She would impale herself upon me, and the fire would rekindle itself. The goings-on of the world outside those walls mattered little to me when I was with her; I cared not for my duties, for Malik (whom would later chide me for proposing a group "tutoring" session for her, as it was, and I will admit, a rather bad excuse to have group sex) and I would let myself be lost in the throes of passion I tried so desperately to deny myself.  
When the fire died, her hands would caress my cheek softly and she would kiss me, in a hazy sort of way, and I would avidly respond, as tired as I was. Her soft, golden-brown hands would find mine again, and her whole body would curl up against me, like one of the stray cats that Malik had taken in (but refused to admit to liking) and I would curl up beside her, a warm feeling (that I would not again encounter until I met Maria) flooding my mind and warming my already flushed cheeks. She would always bid me goodnight in her sweet little voice, then was out as swiftly as a candle blown in the wind.

________________________________

  
Malik was the one to inform me of her death. Killed by a traitor to the Brotherhood. I found the bastard and slew him myself, ripping him apart as I screamed in a blind fury.  
As I sat there, breath falling in huffs and puffs from my lips, I began to realize; this wouldn't bring her back. Nothing would bring her back from her grave. The revenge I had enacted had been all for naught, for what did it accomplish but put another man's blood on my hands?  
I sat there and wept, thinking of fond memories, of when we would gaze at the stars. Her voice echoed in my mind; the story of the huntsman and the beast, and the myriad of brief talks we had of our respective families.  
I remembered the day when we sat by the fire on a cold night in December, that she told me she was with child. I had been positively elated. We had danced merrily that night, and in our merriment, roused Malik (whom had been quite bitter at his rude awakening) and his little son Tazim. The boy didn't understand why we made merry but he joined nonetheless, falling over every so often.  
I remember the day we broke apart. We had fought over something trivial, this much I knew, and she had stormed out. I had yelled to her "I never want to see you again!"  
I sat there, next to this traitor's mutilated body, and wept harder than I had before. I missed her. I wished to whatever higher power existed that I had one more day with her, to fix my mistakes.  
My last words to her were in scorn.  
There was nothing I could do to bring her back.  
I resigned myself to finding my way back to the Masyaf stronghold. I did not bother to clean up the mess; let them suspect. I did not, could not, bring myself to care.  
When I found the stronghold, it was nightfall. Many of the citizens had retired to their homes, but those who remained, looked scared upon my arrival. I suppose they were right in their fear; I was, in fact, soaked in deep red blood.  
I locked myself in my room for a time, mourning in my loss. I threw a knife at the wall; it clattered to the floor.  
I balled my hands into fists and uncurled them, over and over again, and I thought; why couldn't it have been me?  
Malik had come in (by some miracle, or perhaps he simply picked the lock, I did not care) and embraced me, but it did not feel the same as her. I still loved her; now, she was gone from this world, and I would never be able to tell her that I didn't mean any of what I had said, that I still loved her.  
I still loved her.  
I spent that night alone. I wished for none to see me as I was then.  
I shall end this entry here, for I find exhaustion creeping upon me. I am not the night owl that I once was.  
To whomever reads this; do not live life as I had.

**Author's Note:**

> I like to tear my characters apart and leave them. I'm a dick.


End file.
